


Dreams and Nightmares

by Salahra



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Castiel's True Form, Domestic, Fluff and Angst, Human Castiel, M/M, Prose Poem
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-08
Updated: 2014-07-08
Packaged: 2018-02-07 23:20:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1917882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salahra/pseuds/Salahra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No matter what Cas is today, Dean dreams about him, and the dreams lead to meditating on things he really didn't want to think about.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dreams and Nightmares

Sometimes, Dean dreams about Castiel, and it shouldn't be a nightmare, but it feels like one.

Cas in the bunker, eating the food he cooks; wearing his favorite shirt without asking and looking so small in it, even though Dean knows he's really not.  Cas in his bed, nuzzling into his neck, but too human, and fragile, and it will never last, even if somehow, inexplicably, they _have_ this thing that they've been either dancing around or hurtling toward and missing disastrously, for so, so long.  Cas, growing old with him, and even though he'd always thought that he would die young, and Cas would never die at all, this is so much worse, because someday they both will _definitely_ die, and someone has to go first.  But, the worst dreams are the ones where Cas isn't human at all, and he dies anyway, because if Cas has grace instead of a soul, then what happens to him when his grace dies out (and it shouldn't, not ever, but Cas has never once hesitated to give his vast, immortal life for Dean's tiny, painfully mortal one)?  The worst dreams are the ones where Dean goes to hell, or to heaven, and Cas isn't there at all.

 

Sometimes, Dean dreams about monsters, and it should be a nightmare, but it doesn't feel like one.

Fire, and wings, and a thing so bright and big that his senses go staticky around the edges, filling up the darkest deepest corners of his mind, his soul, his self.  A pulsing dangerous presence, massive, and real, but just a touch out of focus, as if it's just beyond the ability of his mind to fathom it.  Out of focus, but familiar and kind, like a parent or a lover lingering by your bed while you're feverish or still halfway in a dream.  An alien shapeless thing that could kill with a thought, but instead watches bees and fireflies, and has a fondness for raisins over chocolate chips that Dean will never understand.  This being's grace is so much older, larger than his own soul, by orders of magnitude, and yet here they both are, sitting at the table in socked feet, and all because somehow Dean's tiny insignificant soul had drawn this swirling majesty into it's own orbit, and pulled it close.

 

Sometimes, Dean’s awake, and he finds it hard to believe he’s not dreaming, because angels are real, and warm, and they really are watching over him.

And sometimes, they snore.


End file.
